


Eternal devotion

by Ostodvandi



Series: Dimilix Week 2020 [2]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Reincarnation, Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius Lives, Sort Of, Sreng war, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:22:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,130
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22734010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ostodvandi/pseuds/Ostodvandi
Summary: House Fraldarius has always been devoted to House Blaiddyd's protection, and House Blaiddyd has always followed House Fraldarius' guidance. However, there's always been something more.
Relationships: Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd/Felix Hugo Fraldarius, Kyphon/Loog (Fire Emblem), Lambert Egitte Blaiddyd/Rodrigue Achille Fraldarius
Series: Dimilix Week 2020 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1633846
Comments: 8
Kudos: 80





	Eternal devotion

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy am I a ho for ye olde Reincarnation and Family Curse To Forever Pin After Each Other. "Emil why are you so invested in Lambridgue" it was Aija's fault.
> 
> For day 2 of Dimilix week, I chose Reincarnation! Again, sort of. More about the generational curse of "Fraldardius pins over Blaiddyd and Blaiddyd is oblivious until too late".

There is something special about everything she does, and he has noticed it somewhere in the middle between meeting her and this very moment, but he can't properly pinpoint when. All he is sure of is that he is overtaken by pretty much everything: her voice, her blue eyes, the silky dark blue hair that she cut with a dagger moments before their battle with the Nabateans. She is growing it back now, if only because they have no time on their way to the north of the continent to get distracted with such superficial activities.

Blaiddyd sighs, watching her clean her shield so dutifully, and he gives his own lance a look. Made out of the bones of a creature he himself killed. Glowing, powerful under the morning sun.

He hears Fraldarius hum and turns to her with a big smile on his face. 'Something wrong?'

'Nothing. I'm ready to go.' She gets up, and so does her pegasus, obedient as ever. 'You? Gautier is waiting for us in the north.'

'That woman is insufferable,' Blaiddyd whines, but gets up as well. 'Wanting to build her territory in the worst possible place. And we're following her.'

'Keep your damn mouth shut and walk, Blaiddyd. We don't have all day.'

He smiles again, gathering his belongings. 'Yes, ma'am.'

She huffs, and Blaiddyd feels a warm satisfaction when he sees the slightest smile on her lips for the few seconds it lasts. A rare present, and yet a gorgeous one that he will treasure in his memory.

It vanishes quickly, which is not unexpected, but disappointing.

'I wonder,' she mutters, looking at the glowing shield strapped on her arm. 'If we'll be punished by this.'

'You heard what that crazy woman said. That we could go, unpunished-'

'I don't mean her. I mean…'

'Divine retribution?' Blaiddyd raises an eyebrow. '...I think that's bullshit.'

'Could be.'

They fall silent, and he follows her and her pegasus, to the end of the continent.

* * *

The war council ends, after hours upon hours of deliberation, and, as per usual, Loog and Kyphon are the last to leave the war room behind. They say nothing for a while, sighing, and their hands touch for more than would be considered proper.

'Kyphon,' the King of Lions says. 'Would you come observe the stars with me?'

Kyphon nods, and he allows himself the liberty of intertwining their fingers together, Loog's cold hand with his own warmer one. Loog smiles and squeezes his retainer's hand before dragging him to their right.

Their way to the tower is silent, but it's a silence they are both used to, in which they can focus on their linked hands and the narrow steps of this tower, the Silver Maiden being the only witness to their intimacy. Little by little, without ever letting go, they get closer to the stars and to a brief moment together, away from the war, their positions, and everyone.

Only when they get there, and all of the starry sky is over them, does Loog let go of Kyphon's hand. He leans on the railing and watches the citadel beneath them, surrounding the Maiden, and Kyphon waits.

'The Archbishop will arrive tomorrow, or past tomorrow. She will bring with her the peace treaty I and the Emperor shall sign, and the lady she sees fitting for me to marry and start our new kingdom with.'

A little heartbreak is a small price to pay for a kingdom, for the freedom so many have fought and died for, but it doesn't feel like a little. It feels more like the whole sky is crumbling down on him, shards of stars being embedded in his chest. 

'Love.' 

'Don't call me that.' Kyphon exhales, and looks at his king: tall, mighty, fair features deformed by the scars of battle that he has kissed a million times, scarred hands that can both kill mercilessly and hold with a tenderness Kyphon has never seen before, a long golden mane, as wild as the man himself.

'Kyphon, then,’ he whispers, trying to be gentle. 'I'm sorry.'

It's hard to breathe, even more difficult to speak, but Kyphon will manage. He walks closer to Loog, to his king, to the love of his life, and bends one knee, holding one of Loog's hands with his own two.

'You're, first and foremost, my king,' he starts, and he puts that hand against his forehead. 'I am but your servant, your sword and shield, yours to command as you wish. Your friend. And last of all, your lover. My soul is tied to yours – has always been, I know this to be true, and will always be, so fear not that I will keep searching for you, to protect you from whatever kind of future may come. My soul is, has always been, and will always be yours, Loog.'

Another moment of silence, that breaks with Loog's choked voice. 'Please, stand up.' 

Kyphon obeys, and Loog's rough palms land on his cheeks, pushing him closer for a kiss, one way too long and passionate for the well being of Kyphon's heart.

'No matter whatever there is to come, Kyphon,' he whispers over his lips. 'My soul is yours as well.'

* * *

It smells like death in the camp, but the cold winds take some of the stench away. Rodrigue is getting used to it – he shouldn't be used to it – but it's still disgusting, it still makes his stomach turn and reject any food. He walks by the fallen soldiers, some on the verge of death, some with hopes of healing. He has offered all of them the holy services, although clumsily, it's all he can offer, considering their priest died of frostbite two weeks ago. All of them deserve, at least, to receive last words of comfort.

If hell has to look like a place on this Earth, Sreng would be it.

Between the whines of the ones that will soon be reunited with the Divine Sothis, he hears strong steps, and soon two strong hands grasp at his shoulders. A familiar touch, one that feels warm, but also makes him dizzy with feeling.

'My friend,' he hears that beautiful voice of his murmur. 'Would you come with me?'

He would go anywhere he needs him. He has already followed him to this, without an ounce of regret. Ridiculous, truly, how love can completely blind all of the prudence he prides himself on.

'Yes.' His voice comes out rough, and it feels like speaking with glass shards in his throat. 'Of course.'

But it's easier said than done: his knees, which had been working automatically all this time, suddenly seem to give in under the weight of several battles, Rodrigue's own wounds, and the pleads for mercy of the damned souls he couldn't save in time.

All of it is so heavy, it makes his head spin.

'Rod.' Lambert's arms keep him from falling, they alone can keep him somewhat steady, away from absolute collapse. They hold him close, close enough for Rodrigue to hear his own heart beating again, ferociously. He thinks one of Lambert's hands is tucking a strand of hair that has escaped from his ponytail behind his ear, but that's impossible, because nobody's touch should be so healing, no hands should be that calloused and tender at the same time. 'Rod.'

No human voice should anchor him to the living like this, and yet, Lambert's does.

'You've been working yourself to certain death, haven't you? Rod…' And this isn't right, because a proper shield should never crack, no matter what. A shield never lets the person behind it be hurt or swarmed with worry. There are too many people he hasn't been able to protect from hurt, including Lambert, and he dares call himself a Fraldarius. 

He tries to walk again, to show him that he is fine, that there are better things to worry about than him, but his body is a traitorous one: his whole life seems to leave him behind, his mind goes pitch black, he hears Lambert's voice calling for him, and then, nothing.

  
  


Rodrigue sleeps deeply and soundly after some time, and the other healers that attended to the king's panicked pleas have informed him that this is most likely a result of exhaustion and little else. Lambert has tried to believe them, because it makes sense: It's just like Rodrigue to do everything until he can't anymore, and to do it alone, refusing any outside help.

But this, this is too much.

Lambert is incapable of focusing on his work, needing to look at Rodrigue and check if his chest is still moving every few minutes to have peace of mind. Eventually, he gives up and sits by his side with some warm tea and cookies, the last one a very rare treat in the Sreng frontlines that he is keeping for whenever Rodrigue's eyes open again.

He takes a sip of the tea, and looks back at him. Rod, his oldest and most trusted friend, pale like a corpse, but still breathing, still alive. And that's what matters, because he has no idea of what he'd do with himself if Rodrigue died. A part of Lambert's soul would die with him, for sure.

His fingers then stroke Rodrigue's hair, wrapping themselves on the waves of midnight blue, and the sleeping man seems to sigh. 

That familiar guilt that springs in his chest appears again, like all the times he gets too caught up in how deceptively lovely Rodrigue can be. Because those sorts of thoughts shouldn't have place in the mind of a married man.

There are, however, things he can't help.

'Please, do not scare me like this again,' he pleads. 'Because I don't know how I'm supposed to live without you.'

* * *

They walk out of Enbarr castle together, hands close enough to hold, with slow movements. The adrenaline of victory hasn't set in just yet, but the cheers of the army and the common people make them look up at the real world, at the peace they've almost died for.

Dimitri's shoulder bleeds, as does Felix's side, Dimitri's hand pressed on it and holding him up. Then, there is a rush of things happening in front of them: Rodrigue and Mercedes take them to a calmer place for healing, and Annette tries to help. Dimitri whines Felix's name when he has to let go of him, as if he himself were to die if he can't hold him.

'It's alright, Your Majesty.' Mercedes' voice is soothing, like a mother's. 'He will be alright. I guarantee it.'

What can he do but trust her, while her magic closes his wound as efficiently as she can? Felix must be saved. They can't lose each other again. 

'Mercedes,' he begs, voice strained by fatigue and pain. 'I– I cannot… Lose him again… Not when… We have a chance…'

There is something about Dimitri, about how his eye appears to see beyond her, beyond anything tangible in this world. His voice, despite being the same, sounds different, and that's terrifying in a way.

'Ssh, settle down, Your Majesty. I assure you Felix will live, as you will.'

Dimitri sobs.

  
  


Felix eventually shows up in his tent, walking with the help of his father, and sits by the side of his improvised bed. Rodrigue says something he doesn’t quite catch and then he smiles at Dimitri, leaving soon after.

It’s just them, and the vague sounds of the people outside, wanting to see if the new king of Faerghus, possibly all of Fódlan, is still alive. If he will survive, or if another war will take place for the hegemony of the continent.

But right now, it’s just them, and that will be enough for a while.

In one of those moments when Dimitri’s eye is completely open, he looks up at Felix, traces the curve of his nose, his lips, his jaw, the strands of midnight blue hair that fall over his face, and he speaks.

‘Felix.’

And Felix hums tiredly, looking back at him and laying his cheek on Dimitri’s hair. ‘What.’

It feels strange, to ask these four words, like some kind of cosmic barrier beyond them is being ripped by Dimitri’s voice and thoughts, but he still feels compelled to ask. ‘Would you marry me? …Not now… One day.’

He hears Felix sigh from the depths of his lungs, but he can’t bring himself to regret the question too much, his mind too tired and hazy. He, however, manages to catch and remember Felix’s reply, so low nobody else could possibly hear him.

‘I’ve already come this far for you, boar. So… I suppose I could consider it. Happy?’

Dimitri smiles, falling asleep again. ‘Very.’

**Author's Note:**

> I have [a Twitter](https://twitter.com/Ostodvandi)!


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